


The Bread Box

by fireweed15



Category: Book of Life (2014), Hetalia: Axis Powers, crossover - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, F/M, Post-World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 02:19:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8038396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireweed15/pseuds/fireweed15
Summary: Even though it wasn’t in her apartment, it felt like home.





	The Bread Box

Honda Ayame been given $25 and a bus ticket home. The journey had been long, and filled with anxiety about the state of her home when she returned to it. The streets were familiar, but now, the other side of the street looked foreign to her. There was no sign of anything she had left behind.

She waited until a few cars passed before crossing, her suitcase heavy in her hand. Closer to the window, she could see that the whole interior layout had changed dramatically—the small, intimate tables, the wall scrolls and flowers… Even the alcove had been boarded up and painted over. Now a few display cases filled with pastries and breads sanctioned off the public and employee areas. A chalkboard hung above the cases, and the name of the business,  _ The Bread Box _ , was stenciled in the window.

The door opened, and a customer emerged. She passed by Ayame without a second thought, but she still winced, waiting for a dirty look or a hissed whisper,  _ Jap _ —

It never came. Alone on the street, Ayame turned to the door and forced herself to go inside. The scent of fresh bread and baking sweets filled the air. The colors were warm, and a radio beside the single register played a tune Ayame didn’t recognize. Whoever had been working the register was gone now, leaving her with the feeling that she was the only person in the world.

She set her bags beside a table and approached the register. She lightly tapped the service bell beside the register, cringing internally when it sounded so much louder than it actually was.

"Coming!" A voice from the kitchen filtered through the air before a worker rounded the corner to greet her. He was young, his yellow hair styled as if he meant it to appear as though it was standing on end. His left shirtsleeve was pinned to the shoulder to compensate for its emptiness, and Ayame was quick to focus on his face as he spoke to her. "Yes, ma’am?"

She dipped her head in a slight nod of acknowledgement. "What happened to Honchaya?"  

The worker’s brow furrowed in confusion. "I beg your pardon?"

His lack of knowledge was already worrisome, but she pressed on. "The teahouse—" She tapped the wooden counter twice. "This used to be a teahouse. What happened to it?"  

She shrugged slightly, the gesture making his pinned shirtsleeve sway. "That’s a question for the owner—let me get him." He offered her an apologetic smile before returning to the back of the bakery. The radio on the counter and the faint sound of a few passing cars drowned out the sound of their conversation.

A few moments later, the owner emerged. His apron was dusted with flour, much like his mustached face. He was significantly taller than Ayame, and much broader. Despite his warm smile, the dark leather patch covering his left eye made her take a small step back. "Mornin’," he greeted brightly.

"The business—" She paused, drawing a shuddering breath before trying again. "What happened to the business that used to be here in 1942?"  

"I couldn’t say, ma’am," he replied, shaking his head. "I bought this building from the bank a few months ago—I don’t know anything about it before August."  

Ayame laid her hand on the edge of the counter, gripping it to steel herself. "I… I do not understand. I was told I could come home."  

His brow furrowed at the apparent non sequitur. "I’m sorry?"

"This…" The world felt like it had fallen out from beneath her feet—again. "This used to be my home—the teahouse that was here before your bakery was mine, the apartment above this shop… it all used to be mine." Speaking of her home, her business, her  _ livelihood _ from before the war in the past tense was like someone gripping her heart and clenching it, tightly. A small, choked sob escaped her throat, and she covered her mouth with one hand to keep more from escaping.

The situation seemed to sink in, and his jaw hung open for a moment. "Oh god…" he murmured.  

His understanding of the severity of her situation was a welcome change, but it didn’t soothe her rapidly fraying nerves. "I am sorry," she gasped, shaking her head and hating the tears slipping down her cheeks. "This is not dignified—"

"Don’t apologize," he replied in an apparent attempt at calming her.  

It didn’t work, and Ayame started to cry in earnest. Her tears felt oppressively hot on her cheeks, and the shame of breaking down like this in public did little to assuage the feeling.

The sight of her seemed to send him into something that could only be described as a "small panic." "Oh geez— wait here—" He disappeared into the back, and for a moment, Ayame felt a thrill of panic that he was preparing to throw her out of his— _ his! _ —business.

When he did return, it was with a pastry settled on a piece of baker’s parchment in one hand and a white porcelain mug of coffee. He stepped out from behind the counter and joined her, keeping a respectable distance between them. He nodded toward the table where she’d set her suitcases down to indicate that she should sit, all the while still trying to soothe her. "Please don’t cry, Miss…?" He trailed off, color touching his cheeks at the realization that he didn’t know her surname.

"H—" She paused, the stern correction of the American, and thus "proper," way to introduce oneself fresh in the back of her mind. "Ayame Honda."

"Miss Honda," he finished, nodding in understanding as he set the coffee and pastry on the tabletop. "Okay. I'm Joaquín Mondragon." He pulled out the chair and let her settle into the seat before pushing the food a little closer to her. "I bet this isn't what you had your heart set on, but here. On the house."

The sight of the simple meal (probably the first she'd eaten in almost a day) gave Ayame pause. "Oh… You are sure?"  

"Positive," he confirmed. "I hate seeing people cry. Like I said, I know it's not what you wanted, but…"

Ayame picked up the coffee, her fingers wrapping around the warm mug. "Thank you… If you are not busy, you are welcome to sit with me." She paused, wincing internally at the words. Technically speaking, he could sit anywhere he pleased—this  _ was  _ his business, after all.

If he had similar thoughts, he didn't let them show. Instead he called over his shoulder that he was taking a break before settling into the chair opposite her.

They were an oddly matched pair—Joaquín was significantly taller and broader than Ayame. The only thing that they had in common was the fact that they were both very, very uncomfortable. Ayame sipped the coffee (sweetened with sugar, but a little stale—the perfect obtuse metaphor for her situation) and occasionally breaking off a piece of pastry, but neither of them spoke for the longest time.

Finally, Joaquín broke the silence. "Do you have anywhere to go?"

"I’m sorry?" Ayame asked, lifting her head from the coffee mug.

"Since I kinda…" He paused, to rub the back of his neck. "I took over your apartment and everything—do you have anywhere to go?"

The realization was like cold water down her back. It seemed as though everyone she knew from this neighborhood had chosen to not come back—and why should they? Hell,  _ she _ couldn’t be sure if she was welcome back, given her… background. "...I do not," she replied.

Joaquín nodded solemnly before standing. "Let me make a phone call—please excuse me." He disappeared behind the counter and into the back for several moments, leaving Ayame with her mostly finished coffee, half-eaten pastry and the suffocating silence of being alone in a place that was once familiar but wasn't anymore. The radio covered up any conversation in the back that might have been taking place, and the sheer knowledge that she knew  _ nothing _ of what was going on pained her. Three years of not knowing what would happen had made her leery, and she couldn’t decide if that was what had kept her safe or was going to be a problem later on…  

After a few minutes, Joaquín returned to the table. He turned the chair to straddle the seat, his arms resting on the back. "The guy I work with—" He nodded back toward the bakery behind the counter—"his dad runs a boarding house. I talked to them both, and they have room for you for a while. It's one twenty-five a night. You can have somewhere to go until you figure something out."

"You are very kind," she began, setting the mug on the tabletop, "but I don’t have that much..." At that price, the money she'd been given would cover three weeks' rent, assuming she didn’t spend anything on food, clothing or toiletries. She’d done without for so long, of course, but…

Joaquín's voice cut into her thoughts. "All due respect, Miss Honda," he was saying, "but what do you have to lose?"

… Well. He  _ did _ have a point. "Thank you for your kindness."

  * • 



Joaquín and his employee, who introduced himself as Arthur Frost, decided to, in light of recent developments (and against Ayame's protests that it was really, truly unnecessary) close the bakery early. None of the three had a car, but both reassured her that the boarding house was within short walking distance. She nodded in understanding before taking up her bags once more. Both insisted that they could carry them, but she politely declined. She hadn't needed anyone to carry her things or herself since the orders were passed.

The walk was little more than ten minutes, and brought them to a two story building, simply painted and well cared for. A sign hanging beside the front door read  _ Bay Home Boarding House _ , with a smaller sign below that informing passerby of a vacancy. "My dad opened this place before I was born," Arthur explained, letting the trio in. Joaquín and Arthur removed their hats and shouldered out of their jackets. Ayame removed her hat, as well, and had to remind herself to not remove her shoes. Not doing so felt impolite, but it tended to confuse and perturb Western company.

"Dad!" Arthur called, poking his head into a dining room. "We're home!"

"Welcome back." A voice filtered into the entryway from the sitting room. Its owner, a man who looked uncannily like Arthur stepped into the entry, leaning heavily on cane. He couldn’t have been much older than forty, but looked much older.

The pair exchanged brief, quiet conversation before Arthur helped the elder to join the pair. "Miss Honda, this is my dad, Elliot," he introduced. "Dad, this is Ayame Honda."

Ayame shook Elliot's extended hand, dipping her head in a bow. "Thank you for the room," she murmured. "I am extraordinarily grateful.” 

“It's no trouble at all.” Despite his frail appearance, his handshake was firm. “Come have a seat—dinner'll be ready in a few minutes.” He released her hand and started through the dining room. 

 

“Dad, I said I was going to cook tonight.” Arthur’s expression was almost hurt. 

 

“I had the time,” Elliot called over his shoulder as he pushed the kitchen door open. “I don’t mind, Artie.: 

 

Arthur moved to follow, seemingly determined to get to the door before it closed. “You also have orders from the doctor…” The words faded as he moved, and were eventually cut off as the door swung shut. 

 

“Elliot’s pretty sick,” Joaquín explained, perhaps sensing Ayame’s confusion at the conversation. “The doctors are still trying to figure it out. It’s nothing contagious, don't worry. I've lived here since April and nothing's gone sideways yet.” 

 

The news was so solemn, and yet his smile was so warm—he wanted to put her mind at ease, and it was noble, but the effort simply wasn’t… appropriate. She didn’t mention it to him, and simply nodded in reply.

 

  * • 



Dinner was served shortly after that—chicken, peas, and (perhaps most blessedly familiar of all) rice. Ayame murmured her thanks when Arthur settled a full plate in front of her, and almost wept when she saw that the rice was properly cooked. How long had it been, and how terrible were the conditions in Utah, that a simple pile of rice could bring her such joy?

 

If anyone thought her murmured, reflexive  _ “Itadakimasu _ ” at the beginning of the meal was strange, they didn’t comment on it. After that, being in Rome as it were, Ayame followed the lead of her hosts in terms of blessings (Joaquín seemed to be the only one who offered them, the act done silently) and conversation. Eventually, the conversation turned to her. “Miss Honda,” Elliot began, “how did you and Joaquín meet?” 

 

Despite the sip of water she had just taken, Ayame’s throat suddenly felt very dry. What could she say that wouldn’t damn him? “Mr. Mondragon bought my former place of business,” she finally replied, speaking as vaguely as possible. 

 

The words gave Arthur pause, his fork suspended in midair for a moment. “I thought you bought it from the bank,” he commented. 

 

“So did I,” Joaquín mumbled, his gaze fixed on his plate.

 

Upon seeing the seemingly lost expression on Elliot’s face, she explained, “My business was a small teahouse. I sold it to a gentleman for three hundred dollars in 1942, before I… left town.” As if on holiday—if only Topaz and the city of Delta, Utah, beyond it could be considered a “holiday.” 

 

“When I bought it,” Joaquín supplied, “the bank told me they got it for three thousand. They gave me a break on the loan because I was coming back from the front.” 

 

“How much of a break?” Elliot asked, almost hesitant. 

 

When he replied, Joaquín’s tone was just as reluctant. “Ten percent knocked off the principal…” 

 

Suddenly, Ayame felt all three of them looking at her, like she was under a searchlight. And why wouldn’t they? His “break” was all she had got for the building and everything therein, both for the business and the personal belongings she’d left behind. She looked down at her plate, no longer hungry, before swallowing her hurt and offering Joaquín a small smile. “You got an excellent deal, Mr. Mondragon. It is a good building—and with an apartment above. It very attractive.” 

 

She set her fork down to politely gesture to the others at the table. “ _ Ima _ —please, I know so little of all of you. How did you meet your business partner, Mr. Mondragon?” There. That topic would hopefully be safe enough. 

 

“We're army buddies,” Arthur replied, no doubt sensing the topic change for what it was. 

 

Ayame nodded in understanding. The service banner she had seen in the window of the parlor earlier was no doubt Arthur’s. “If I may ask, where did you serve?” 

 

Arthur and Joaquín both looked down at their plates, almost embarrassed. “Pacific…” Joaquín mumbled, reaching for his glass to avoid having to elaborate on the topic. 

 

“Oh.” Shame colored Ayame’s cheeks, and the room suddenly felt impossibly hot—victory gardens in the godforsaken deserts of Utah hot. 

The rest of the conversation was meandering and awkward—Joaquín immigrated as a young boy and enlisted before the war officially began. Arthur enlisted after, not for pride or for country but to send money to his ailing father, who had raised him alone. And then there was Ayame—an internee who had been told she could come back home, only to find her presence had caused her to become intimately entwined in these strangers' lives.

She didn't speak for the rest of the meal. In her culture, this was normal, acceptable—but these kinds of awkward conversations… not so much.

Elliot had invited her to join them in a card game and to listen to the radio, but Ayame politely declined, claiming exhaustion and a need to unpack and clean up. All three men nodded in understanding, and with the exception of an offer to help her carry her things up to her room, left her to her own devices. She declined the offer—after having carried her possessions so far for so long, up a flight of stairs was nothing. The room they gave her was small and sparsely furnished—a bed, nightstand and desk and chair—but intimate. A window overlooked the street, allowing the last rays of sunset into the room. 

 

In Utah, she could have made a list a mile long of all the things about home that she missed, and she was quick to remember how highly a warm shower and a soft bed had ranked on that list. Washing away the dust of travel and the camps made her soul feel lighter, and sitting on a comfortable bed was a welcome relief. Even though it wasn’t in her apartment (and she had to stop thinking of it as  _ her  _ apartment and  _ her  _ shop), it felt like  _ home _ . 

 

A quiet knock interrupted her thoughts, and she laid aside her hairbrush and made certain her robes were tied properly. “Yes?” she called. 

 

The door opened, and Joaquín poked his head in, his expression almost sheepish. “Hey,” he greeted. “May I come in?” 

 

She nodded as she stood and set the brush on the nightstand. “Of course.” 

 

He opened the door more fully and, after taking a moment to kick off his shoes just outside the door, stepped inside. “I just wanted to see if you were settling in alright.” 

 

“I am, thank you,” she replied, nodding slightly before pulling out the desk chair for him. “Please, have a seat.” She watched as he sat, straddling the chair with his arms resting on the back. “I apologize if I offended you or Mr. Frost at dinner this evening.” 

 

“'S'okay,’ he replied, shrugging slightly. “It was probably gonna come up eventually.”

 

Ayame was amazed that he could speak so casually of it, even though it had obviously embarrassed him. “I hope that you will accept my most humble apology all the same,” she murmured. 

 

“I do—apology accepted.” Joaquín nodded slightly before rubbing the back of his neck. “Hey, I have a proposal for you. Strictly business.” 

 

“ _ Fumu _ ? What do you mean?” she asked, brow furrowing. 

 

“It’s hard to run a bakery with just me and one guy—especially with…” He gestured vaguely to his eye patch, the first time Ayame had ever seen him reference it. “And Artie is trying to get a prosthetic he likes made. Someone who knows the building and the neighborhood would be a great fit.” 

 

“You are offering me a job?” she translated. 

 

“Yeah,” he confirmed. “Artie thinks it’s a great idea and we talked about it with Elliot—he’s willing to let you rent the room, and all of us can walk to work and back.” 

 

Would it be so easy? The transition from Utah to here had been hard enough—would bringing an internee into his business cause problems, for him and for her? 

 

“I know it’s not your teahouse,” he went on, perhaps mistaking her thoughtfulness for refusal, “but if you want…” 

 

“You are too kind,” she replied. “I am not sure I can accept.” 

 

“So does that mean no?” His expression showed regret at the prospect—but at the same time, there was a glint of recognition of the phrasing… 

 

“You are more in step with my culture than I thought,” she murmured. “I accept your offer. Thank you— _ arigatou gozaimasu _ .”

 

He sat up a little straighter, obviously pleased. “You’re welcome.”

 

There was a slight lull in the conversation, which he chose to fill. “So… Your teahouse was named Honchaya?” Ayame nodded in confirmation. “It’s a nice name.” 

 

A slight smile touched her face. “It is a pun.” 

 

Confusion touched his features. “I don’t follow,” he admitted. 

 

“One moment, please.” She stood and opened the desk drawer beside him, and withdrew a piece of paper and a pencil. “My family name is Honda,  _ ne _ ?” 

 

“Right,” he prompted, turning to better see the paper. 

 

She wrote out a series of kanji characters, the strokes coming from the pencil as fluidly as water, and their latin alphabet pronunciation. “My family name, Honda, and  _ chaya _ —this means teahouse. Now remove this character—” She turned the pencil and erased the second character and its pronunciation. 

 

“Okay so it’s the name of the teahouse,” he replied. “I’m still following.” 

 

Now she circled some of the characters and wrote their English translations underneath. "This… Teahouse."

 

He considered the paper for several moments. “You named your business ‘This Teahouse,’" he pronounced. 

 

“ _ Hai _ —yes.” She couldn’t help but be proud of the pun—it was extremely clever, even in native tongue, and so far no English speaker had yet to realize it. At the same time, doubt began to worm its way into her consciousness—more and more of it the longer Joaquín examined the kanji in front of him. 

 

Finally, he smiled broadly, enthusing, “That’s the best pun  _ ever _ !” 

For the first time in easily recalled memory, Ayame laughed. She was going to  _ like _ him.


End file.
